


Along The Fault Lines

by Gryphonrhi



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Bondage, Challenge Response, M/M, Quickening Sex, Stealth Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:18:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duncan wanted a vacation in the mountains.  Instead he gets to help an old friend out of a bind. Hard work, but not without its pleasures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Along The Fault Lines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [killabeez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/gifts).



Small white puffs of cloud floated across a deep blue sky, and a breeze shivered the aspen leaves around Duncan. A thin line of a game trail wound in front of him, unspooling away and up into a pale thread on the dark grey rock face, tempting him away from his search. He didn't expect to find anything -- the search was only an excuse to come and wander -- so temptation was winning. 

The sound of rolling, nearly continuous thunder pulled Duncan out of his musings on whether he had the right gear packed for an overnight in the high mountains.

He was certain that had been a quickening and he was half-afraid that he knew where someone had just taken it. Unfortunately, he was right. 

What had been the entrance to a long, narrow meadow framed by trees and higher ridges was lightning-charred when he got down to it. The stream had been pouring out of the valley and off a ledge to become a thirty foot waterfall; now it was threading its way through a litter of trees and boulders that had fallen since Duncan had hiked through. 

Enough debris lay tumbled that it was going to take Duncan at least one full day to clear his route back out -- maybe two or three days if the other immortal was no help. The stream was also showing signs of pooling back. Duncan now had a choice: shift enough debris by nightfall to give it a clear path off and out, or risk wading into a cold, muddy lake in the morning that he'd have to clear to get out of the valley.

All of that could and would have to wait a few hours, however; right now, there were more important matters to handle. To his left, Duncan could see a slim arm extending from under a pine. To the right, he could see a man's body, a rock pinning one leg down, but his head still attached -- which made him the priority.

Duncan hadn't expected to find he knew the surviving immortal.

* * *

Matthew woke up with his sword under his hand, a wool blanket and an old quilt layered over his bare skin, and a pounding headache that was almost worse than the still-throbbing ache of his left leg. Opening his eyes showed him Duncan MacLeod rigging a fire in the battered stove of a small but mostly intact log cabin.

The pain in his head let up a little once he'd found the other immortal and Matthew managed to rasp out, "What are you doing here?"

MacLeod turned around and came across the old pine floor to kneel by him with a canteen. "Here. Drink up, there's more downhill, and you lost a lot of blood." Matthew surrendered to the practicalities and drained it, grateful for the arm behind his shoulders and the care that didn't shift his leg as he was moved.

Tempting as it was to lie there and just look around, the sharp pains in his leg told Matthew he'd have time for that later. "How much trouble are we in?" he asked.

MacLeod smiled a little despite himself. "You'll help dig us back out, so we should be fine." He shrugged. "We have enough wood for the stove. I have some sandwiches we can split for dinner, and I have snares set out, which should give us breakfast. We're here at least one day, maybe two, but that's manageable, so long as no one comes by asking about lightning storms."

"And if anyone does come by with inconvenient questions, I wrenched the knee and I'll be fine by morning," Matthew agreed grimly. "Thank you. I have food in my pack that I can contribute. Assuming a tree didn't crush it, anyway. Did my clothes survive, or did you have to burn them?"

"They weren't salvageable," MacLeod told him. "But your wallet and such are on the table." He indicated the opposite corner of the small cabin, where a table and shelves served as a makeshift kitchen. "I found your sword, and hers, and buried her under a root ball. We can shift more stones on top of the grave tomorrow."

"You already gave her better than she deserves," Matthew told him flatly; he'd caught the faint hesitation over 'her.' "She was using the name Bellatrix Charron, and she was a headhunter who believed in killing her target's friends and family before issuing the challenge. The miracle is that no one had hunted and killed her before now, MacLeod."

"One of those," MacLeod said, frowning with some memory. "Felice Martins is the same." He glanced up. "And last I saw you it was Duncan."

Matthew studied him from hooded eyes. "Is it still?" He indicated the healing leg whose pain he couldn't yet ignore. "I'd have said we're still friends, but you didn't sound too sure there."

That got a quirk of lips that turned into a smile. "Let's see, I've dug you out, set your leg as best I could -- don't ask how many breaks--"

"I assure you, I can guess," Matthew said dryly.

"-- let you have all the current water, and I even waited to share my dinner. I think we're still friends. We'd better be. There's only one bed."

Matthew held his face still and didn't curse. Broken leg to heal or not, the quickening was having other predictable effects. MacLeod gave him an amused look and didn't bring it up (and now that he was letting himself notice the almost painful erection, Matthew wished he hadn't thought that phrase).

Duncan just smiled. "Stay here, get warm, heal up. I'll be back with more water. Any idea where your pack is, other than near a tree?"

Matthew nodded. "Up the southwest slope, there was a beech tree with an old axe notch about twenty feet up the trunk."

"Twenty feet up on a beech? Yeah, that's an old mark," Duncan agreed. He brought over a knife. "Here. Balance is just below the hilt if you need it. I'll be back soon, and I'll call before I come in."

* * *

The sunlight was almost gone when Duncan came back down the valley, but he could still see bloodstains here and there. To the north, just where the ground started to visibly rise, there was a hollow dark with blood where he'd dug Matthew out. A few yards from that, the soil was soft with blood where Charron's body had bled out during the quickening.

Duncan had tucked Charron's body under the massive root ball of an upended pine across the stream and a few feet up the southwest slope. Partly he'd done it because that side was steeper and had less chance of being washed out, and partly for the convenience of a pre-dug grave.

Duncan dropped to one knee, using the surface of the stream as a level to confirm his suspicions about the terrain.

The water ran west, washing out between two up-thrusts of granite that formed the keyhole into the valley; a pool was already starting to form. The earth rose along the edges of the granite, soil piled up by the occasional spring flood, at a guess. Useful; soil would wash away a lot faster than rock or branches.

So he studied the rock- and tree-pile, then nodded and clambered up a tree that had fallen against the lower, northern side of the entrance. Duncan managed to shift one of his target rocks easily enough and shoved a pine bough after it; the needles were trapping the mud and doing too good a job of holding back water. The second stone was both larger and partially wedged against the granite. Moving it required a thick pine limb and Duncan's full weight and strength, and damn near dumped him in cold, silty water.

In the time it took him to climb back down, the water was already flowing off to the northern side. He watched for another few minutes despite the fading light, but the new path seemed to be working. If anything, it looked like the water might soften the ground under the northern edge of the rock-fall. Good. That might make this go faster come morning.

Duncan crossed the water upstream, where it was still an easily jumped width, and went looking for a marked beech, idly wondering if Matthew had stumbled across was one of the blazes he was hunting. Within a few minutes, he had to pull out his flashlight to make his way through the trees. He still found Matthew's pack by tripping over it -- not that he was admitting to that unless he'd broken something. 

When he opened the pack to check, he found dehydrated food, a bag of coffee grounds, and nested cooking gear; spare clothes tightly rolled (around a dagger in a couple cases); a microfleece blanket equally tightly rolled into its bag; and a space blanket and a coil of paracord. A UV water purifier, fire starter, and laminated map were in an outside pocket, also intact.

With that set-up, Duncan expected a good-sized water bag and went looking for it. He found a journal, which he left alone, a box of colored pencils, and finally a large, good quality water bag at least half-full and still cool.

He sat down where he was and drained half of the water. Then Duncan stood up, pulled on the pack, and adjusted the straps. He followed the water upstream to get away from the debris left by the quickening, and let his mind turn to the problem of why he was worried by the pack's contents.

Matthew had clearly known who Charron was before their fight, but the extra food and the tarp and bedroll suggested that he'd been actively hunting her. That shouldn't have worried Duncan; God knew Connor hunted other immortals and would have considered a woman who went after mortal families more than fair game.

He kept turning it over in his mind anyway as he worked at systematically filling the water filter, sterilizing it, and then adding the filtered result to Matthew's CamelBak. One hundred ounces was quite a bit more than his canteen would hold, enough to get Matthew properly rehydrated from the earlier blood loss and still let them make coffee in the morning before heading into the early morning chill. Of course, then they'd be going out to warm up by heaving rocks, but coffee first would still be good.

Duncan stood up and stretched, which reminded him of Carl stretching his neck as a precursor to a spar -- and gave him the last clue he'd needed as to why he was worried. The last time Duncan had seen Matthew hunting, Matthew had been angry enough to be... off-balance. Not insane, but certainly not completely sane, either. 

For that matter, it'd been fifteen years since Matthew came after Carl. Matthew couldn't still be with the FBI, but if he wasn't, how had he known where to look for Charron? 

No point waiting out here; the stars weren't going to answer his questions.

* * *

The static from his healing was making the hairs on Matthew's leg rub against the quilt with every breath. The same breaths rubbed the blanket against an erection which hadn't subsided any more than Charron's quickening had. Hell, at this point his own heartbeat was a distraction, throbbing stubbornly through his cock as it was. That thought wasn't helping a damn bit, either.

Matthew tried again to focus on his breathing and let everything else settle away. He had about the same luck as he had five minutes ago, or fifteen, namely none. Studying the cabin was some help; he admired good work and whoever had built it had been talented. For a cabin that had to be decades old, the squared-off log walls were still close laid, they didn't let in much draft, and they held the stove's heat well without much chinking.

But it wasn't a large place -- a bed in one corner, a table and shelves opposite that. Someone had put in a stove instead of a fireplace, and there were good-sized windows on two of the walls, but they had neither glass panes nor oil paper still in them. The shutters were keeping the wind out and the rain off the wide pine planks on the floor, old enough to be worn a dark yellow.

After that, however, Matthew was back to looking at the ceiling, wondering what all had been strung off the steep rafters. The presence of another immortal was almost welcome, if only as a new distraction.

Duncan ducked through the doorway and nodded to him. "I brought more water -- refilled your CamelBak. I'll have to get one of those."

"They are useful," Matthew agreed, reaching for his pack and the water in it. Nothing was where he'd arranged it, but he might well have done the same thing in Duncan's place with someone injured to care for. "Thank you."

Duncan shifted to add more wood to the stove, turned back and looked Matthew over. He didn't seem to like what he saw; he frowned and asked, "Bad one?"

Matthew kept drinking, then let himself sag back against the bed to a chorus of rawhide creaks. He was still amazed the bed was intact, old as this cabin was. Grateful, but amazed. "Dear God, I forget sometimes how good it is to be able to talk to someone else who understands.... The damned woman will not settle." His jaw tightened and he added, "And she was filthy."

Duncan nodded. "I've had those." He considered the way the blanket draped and asked, "Need a hand?"

This was definitely one of the days when Matthew was glad he could laugh at himself. "Mine surely hasn't done it. If you're willing to help, I'd be grateful."

"You tried, huh?" The sympathy in the question was disarming. The interest wasn't entirely a surprise; neither was the amusement in his eyes that suggested Duncan had worked through similar problems once or twice.

Matthew propped himself up on his elbows, which let him ease the blanket off his crotch. "Oh, yes. Never even flagged." Matthew added grimly, "I feel like someone's fed me a triple dose of Viagra or Spanish fly."

Duncan winced. "And you've been awake for an hour like this. That even sounds painful."

Matthew was still biting back the more frustrated replies to that when Duncan pulled the blanket down, looking from the leg that had finally quit crackling sparks to Matthew's cock, which was still high, hard, and dark red with blood he didn't particularly have to spare.

"It also looks painful. Let's try this...." 

Duncan settled more comfortably onto his knees beside the bed. Before Mathew could really notice the cold, which was almost soothing at this point, Duncan had wrapped a hand around the base of Matthew's cock.

Just the difference in finger width and grip felt good, better than his hand had. Then Duncan licked a stripe from his hand up to the crown and murmured something against the skin that Matthew couldn't catch because he'd damn near cracked his head against the wall when he fell back. 

Duncan laughed, wet and almost ticklish against too-sensitive flesh. Matthew folded his arms behind his head, locking his hands tight around his own forearms rather than bury them in Duncan's hair. From there, he'd be too close to the man's throat, with errant thoughts and ugly impulses still coursing through him.

The hand around his cock let go, shifting to Matthew's hip while he was still protesting. Time narrowed down to the hands pinning him down at hip and uninjured thigh, the mouth and tongue and occasional scrape of teeth tantalizing his cock.... Matthew had just enough blood left in his brain to be grateful that he was cursing Duncan's skills in Norman French. It was mostly flattering, but Matthew devoutly hoped his comments were incomprehensible. 

Cold air spilled across wet skin and he moaned, low and desperate.

"Matthew. Easy. Come on, pay attention to me, Matthew." Duncan shifted up and sprawled over him, a solid weight to buck up against, and tugged at his hands until they finally came loose. 

Matthew soaked up Duncan's warmth and shuddered under his solidity -- then realized he was spreading his thighs under it, canting his hips up at the wrong angle to do him any good, and growled, "God damn her... off, Duncan. Off."

The bed creaked again as Duncan immediately rolled off the bed to hit the cabin floor with a thump. Matthew opened his mouth to apologize but Duncan shook his head. "Sorry. I wasn't sure if that would help or not. I'm down to two ideas left here, so let's try the one that doesn't involve killing you for a while."

"This goes on much longer, I'll let you," Matthew said, focusing on the hand still tightly in his, on the way Duncan's lips were wet and reddened, on the crackle of the fire instead of the pounding of blood through his veins. "What's your idea?"

"Hands and mouths she was probably used to. Fucking someone else and feeling it... that she can't have been used to." Duncan shrugged ruefully and said, "If that doesn't work, I'm out of ideas."

Matthew simultaneously wanted something, anything wrapped around his cock... and wanted to feel Duncan's cock sinking into him. How many heads had the bitch taken to be this persistent? He ran his free hand along the rough wood of the wall to make his mind focus somewhere other than sex and managed to say, "You don't have to."

Duncan smiled at him, slow, lazy, and clearly attracted. "No. I don't. But I'm offering."

"I'm not sure I have anything for--"

"I've got sword oil if you don't. Not the best for this, but it could be a lot worse. You'll have to let go of me first." Duncan said it lightly, but he was watching Matthew carefully, jaw and shoulders tense with something other than sore muscles.

"Might be best if you got the rope out of my pack," Matthew finally admitted. "I keep wanting to grab you and I'm... not entirely sure I'm safe. I might not be reaching for you just to speed you up, I'm afraid."

"We can do ropes," Duncan said slowly. "How much will that trigger for you?"

Despite himself, Matthew laughed. "Not 'Will it trigger,' but 'How much.'" He could see the apology forming and shook his head. "No, truly. Thank you." He shrugged, then hissed as it shifted cool air across overheated flesh. "It may set off a few remembrances, but right now, having my own memories triggered is far from the worst thing that could happen."

It took more willpower than he liked, but Matthew untangled his hand from Duncan's, one finger at a time. "Go on."

"Drink more of the water." Duncan dug into his own bag for a reassuringly short time, coming up with a plastic bottle and a bundle of rope.

Matthew didn't ask why Duncan had actual rope instead of paracord, he was simply grateful that he did. Rope was wider and would add less damage than straining against paracord. Matthew put the water down and held out his arms. "How do you want to do this?"

"Here." Duncan took his outside arm and wrapped rope above the elbow, knotting it to itself and making sure the knot wouldn’t slide or reduce the size of the loop. He repeated the process below the elbow, then ran the cord down Matthew's forearm and put two loops around his wrist, quick but careful and thorough. 

Matthew didn't ask where or why he'd picked up quite this much skill at restraining without injuring. Instead he made himself pay close attention to the knots, to the feel of the rope against his skin, to the way Duncan's hand felt against him when Duncan ran a fingertip between rope and skin, checking that it shouldn't cut off circulation.

He even managed to shove down his own sense of self-preservation and let Duncan shift his arm up and back before tying it down on one leg of the bed.

Duncan's touch and the quickening still rolling through him mixed with the worry of being restrained by another immortal, creating more anxiety than Matthew had expected. 

Well, well. He bared his teeth in something that wasn't really a smile.

"You in there?" Duncan asked as he started on Matthew's left arm, working in the same quick, efficient pattern. 

"I'm here. It's fine, Duncan. She's not liking the ropes one damn bit." Matthew had to open his eyes to check Duncan's expression, however, and he didn't know when he'd closed them.

That got a slow nod. "Good. You've lost too much blood already. I really don't want to have to kill you again."

"Again?" Matthew frowned. "I was dead during some of that?"

"You were dead when I found you two, yeah. Why?" Duncan eased his other arm back and tied that knot off. "Test that, would you? Let's make sure you won't hurt yourself."

"Or you," Matthew replied. He strained against the bonds, felt the rope chafe his skin, and heard the bed frame creak. Everything held, both the rope bindings and the rawhide lashings. "That worked," he said, fighting to keep his voice even, and looked over to see where Duncan had gone. 

Duncan was shedding his jeans onto the floor, tucking them under the low bed frame with the rest of his clothes; Matthew had time to notice Duncan was hard, too. Worth looking at, he'd already known. Good. Far better this wasn't going one way only. It was enough of a debt as it was.

Duncan grinned at him. "I'm still here." More seriously, he added, "I wouldn't leave you like this." 

"I know." It was even mostly true, but Matthew was fighting off paranoia, justifiable in any immortal at this point, and his own memories of times when bonds had not led to anything pleasant. From the images and panic rising under his worries, Charron had even fewer pleasant memories of such than he did.

Duncan bit down on the side of his throat, not hesitating to use teeth; Matthew gasped and arched into it, suddenly back in the cabin with him and wondering how long he'd been out of it. Duncan sat back and reached back with a slick hand, so cool on Matthew's cock, and began to slide down onto him.

Matthew couldn't help himself; he arched into that, too. Duncan hissed and shifted up over him, then reached down to pin Matthew's hips again. "Not quite that fast yet." The bed creaked under their weight and, Matthew realized a moment later, from the pull of the ropes on his arms.

"Are you still with me?" Duncan asked, working himself down a little ways, back up, farther down. 

Matthew shivered, finally managing to bury himself in his own pleasure and even his own memories. "I'm here," he gasped, then cursed and shuddered when Duncan raked nails along his ribs. "Damn it, just because we'll heal--"

"--and because it's rougher than I'd be with a woman," Duncan pointed out. He didn't sound quite as far in control now. 

Matthew laughed and pressed up into him with both legs finally. The damage was gone, he was settling back into his own body and mind with every heated skin-to-skin contact along their bodies, and he could feel the quickening finally, finally beginning to settle.

Duncan hissed under some of the strokes, not in pain now, and kept moving, shifting his positioning occasionally to change his access or ease his thighs. His hands kept stroking, pinching, scratching, along quads and hips, up the ribs again and down the inside of the arms. It was hard, fast, rough, and completely what Matthew had needed.

A series of bites along his collarbone sent Matthew trying to arch back, and Duncan leaned further in and set teeth hard across his throat.

To his surprise and relief, Matthew came so hard he saw bursts of colored light.

He might have lost a few seconds there, too, something he hadn't done in a couple hundred years... although he'd been low on blood then, too. Matthew blinked once, twice, and found Duncan's hands on either side of his head, holding him steady while Duncan studied his eyes, looking for something.

Apparently he found it.

"Priapism. Knew I'd remember the word sometime when we didn't need it." Duncan chuckled, sliding carefully off him, and rubbing a thumb along his collarbone; Matthew hissed anyway, too sensitive after so long hard. "Sorry."

Matthew sagged into the bed, trying to stifle a yawn as the last twenty hours caught up with him all at once. "Hardly your fault. Move up here and I'll take care of you." He tugged lazily at the ropes, enjoying them suddenly despite the raw skin sparking underneath where his quickening was forcing fibers out. "Better memories for these and I can't quite move yet."

Duncan shook his head and, to Matthew's surprise, leaned in to kiss him with a gentleness at odds with the earlier bites. He also started unknotting the rope. "You can owe me in the morning."

Matthew yawned again despite himself. "If the bed held up to this, it'll hold up to both of us sleeping in it."

That got a laugh. "I wasn't taking the floor, no."

* * *

Duncan lay still and sorted out what had woken him up. Other than it being sometime past midnight and dark enough, and silent enough, that he'd fallen back into old sleep patterns, perhaps. The banked fire didn't seem to have sparks popping, the door hadn't opened, no wolf howl or mountain lion scream....

"I didn't mean to wake you," came the murmur from beside him and Duncan laughed softly. 

"I think I may have woken myself up. What're you doing awake? You slept through me trying to get you to eat."

Matthew shifted carefully, rearranging the blankets on top of them. "I remember you getting me to drink more water -- you're getting a little obsessive about that," he teased. 

Duncan was glad to hear his sense of humor back again. "You needed it. You were badly dehydrated for a while there. And a little crazy, I think. I take it she'd been doing some serious headhunting?"

Matthew stiffened against him; not much, but it wasn't a large bed frame. "I was dreaming about repairing the walls at my father's old keep, chiseling her memories up to fit in wherever I needed more stones."

"That's a yes?"

"That's a yes." Matthew added quietly, "She was older than I'd guessed, and I have more trouble with quickenings if I die while I'm processing them. It doesn't happen often, but... thank you. I owe you."

"Hey, you already promised to pay me back in the morning. You were awake enough to remember that, right?" Duncan asked and smiled when he heard the huff of laughter beside him.

Matthew finally said, "And yes. She'd been headhunting." He fell silent for a long while, so tense Duncan knew he wasn't asleep yet, before he went on, "I was hunting Charron specifically, and very deliberately. I've almost certainly burned a new identity I'd hoped to keep -- I was enjoying being back in college -- and before you have to ask, yes, it was worth it.

"She killed Cory's son a month ago."

Duncan twisted in the bed, coming up on one elbow to try to stare at him, but the windows were shuttered against the cold, and the stove didn't give that much light. He reached out, carefully, and traced Matthew's face, feeling the tight line of his mouth, the set muscles in jaw and temple. "I'm sorry. Did you know him well? Is Cory all right?"

Picturing Cory taking on a constant, long-term commitment should have been more difficult, but imagining him as good with kids was horribly easy. And probably painful just now.

Matthew said tiredly, "No, Cory's not doing all right. Hell, Duncan, I came hunting and I only lost a grandson. Cory's down in North Carolina with Carl sticking to him like glue to be sure he doesn't do anything stupid, and for that matter, emailing me and reminding me not to do anything too stupid."

"You trained Cory, too. I always forget." Duncan finally asked quietly, "How old was he?"

"Daryl was going to be fourteen last week," Matthew sighed. "Cory met him at a Big Brothers/Big Sisters basketball game and said it was like running into Carl at that age. He applied to be Daryl's foster father six years ago, adopted him formally four years ago, as soon as the courts would let him." 

Matthew shifted, tugging at Duncan's elbow. "Get under the blankets; it's cold out. I have to admit, I could see the resemblance between Daryl and Carl. So could Carl; he loved it when they weren't shouting at each other. That usually lasted right up until they shifted straight to what kind of pizza Cory should order for everyone...."

Duncan tugged him in and settled him against a shoulder but Matthew remained still and silent. "Can't cry about it yet?"

"No. Not yet." Matthew pulled in a deep breath, let it out, and relaxed a little more. Deliberately, Duncan suspected, but it would do. "When I get back to North Carolina, with Cory and Carl... yes. Probably." He almost visibly tucked that away. "What are you doing up here, for that matter?"

Duncan shrugged. "Taking a vacation. It's an old friend's cabin -- he inherited it from some friends of his -- and I wanted out of civilization as much as possible for a while, so Cosmo traded me the use of it now for some repairs on it in the next year." He added, rueful and amused, "If I'd known we were going to be here for a couple nights now, I'd have fixed it up first."

"Cosmo?" Matthew asked, interested. "Cosmo Lengro, by any chance?"

"Yeah." Duncan shifted to start rubbing a hand down Matthew's back. "You know him?"

Matthew laughed softly. "He's a friend of Cory's. Can't say I'm surprised he's a friend of yours, too. I made a great deal of money one year betting on a boxer he was promoting, which led to me making some friends in New Mexico. Tye was one of the most practical men I've ever met; for that matter, so was his wife. I still miss them."

"Tye... Tyrel Sackett? I heard about him when I was helping the Texas Rangers hunt Melvin Koren. " Duncan shrugged. "I never met him, but Cosmo misses them, too. I know he keeps an eye on the family."

"Mmm. Done the same thing a time or two myself." Matthew finally relaxed into Duncan's hand on his back. He settled in more comfortably, which involved throwing a leg and arm over Duncan, before yawning and pointing out, "Don't we have rocks to move in the morning?"

Duncan chuckled and let his arm stay wrapped over Matthew's back. Warmer this way, if nothing else. "Yes. But we have coffee and water in here for beforehand."

"Sheer luxury."

* * *

The rabbits roasting over the fire were starting to smell done, but Matthew turned the spit again anyway and hunkered down with his hands out for the warmth.

Duncan pulled over a snapped tree trunk short enough to move but long enough for them both to sit on. "Show me the tree with the notch later?"

Matthew glanced over in surprise. "Surely. Wanting to sort out what it marks?"

"Pretty much." Duncan shrugged. "It's the best kind of puzzle, trying to think like someone else."

"Around here," Matthew said dryly, "it might also be a treasure hunt as I remember my stories."

Duncan considered that. "That might explain why Cosmo still has this property and its mineral rights. What kind of treasure?" He turned his attention to the mountainside, considering the rock formations and types, where he'd seen water running, and what flora he'd seen growing where, trying to place it against other mountains he'd known and, occasionally, mined.

What he finally said was, "Placer gold, I don't doubt. Not much of it found yet, or there'd have been a gold rush."

"Mmm. There've been pockets of gold-rutilated quartz found through here, and a mare's nest of rumors about Spanish army troops run into the mountains by the Apaches, or the Utes, or the Cheyenne." Matthew added, "The story I heard but never double-checked said that there was documentation somewhere in France about an army regiment that buried a great deal of gold, and buried it deep to come back for. God only knows if that's true, but it's certainly possible. The French knew the Spanish were bringing gold out of the new world and thought their own colonies should be able to do the same."

Duncan snorted and pulled the spit off the fire. "And never mind the Louisiana Territory was completely different terrain from Mexico. Hell, though. Even if Cosmo finds gold, he'd still have to get it back down the mountain."

Matthew chuckled. "Ask Cory about how to transport gold swiftly and securely sometime. Lord knows he's worked out enough ways around the problems. Just don't tell me about it."

"Some things don't change," Duncan said, amused. "Cory and thieving--"

"The effects of gold on human nature," Matthew said dryly. 

Duncan said more slowly, "I shouldn't say that, I guess. I wouldn't have thought Cory would adopt."

Matthew smiled faintly. "Cory gets along very well with children. Surely that's no surprise?"

"I'd make a few jokes but it's the wrong time for it." Duncan shrugged. "It's not him with kids that surprised me. It's him taking one on permanently."

"They're mortal," Matthew said simply. "I've seen Cory make twenty year plans, Duncan. Raising children is no worse. Well, more variables, perhaps."

Duncan shrugged minutely, then nodded. "I didn't see any of his long-range plans." He changed the subject back again. "You really think there's gold out here?"

Matthew shrugged. "Certainly. Pockets in the rock, flakes or occasional nuggets in the stream, and probably even some hidden away -- small amounts from people hiding their personal supply, larger amounts the French or Spanish hid until they could get back through the tribes. Do I think we'll find it? That's more random than dice, I'd say."

Duncan handed over a rabbit, somehow amused when Matthew tore into it with hands and teeth. Duncan hadn't planned on using a knife, either, and did the same. He finally shook his head. "I'll go look, but for the fun of it. I saw too many people with gold fever in California and Alaska."

Matthew nodded. "I wouldn't worry too much. Money isn't what drives you." He smiled at the incredulous look. "What? A blind man could see that."

"People change," Duncan said finally. "Things change, people change, lives change."

"What, Cory adopting? Me having trouble with a quickening, or you for that matter?" Matthew shook his head. "No. Details change. Essentials don't." He shrugged. "Mountains rise up and crumble down, people are cruel at the oddest moments and kind at the strangest. Gold is still gold, no matter what form it's in, and you and I take scars inside, but we're still ourselves."

Duncan smiled at that. "Some things change, some things don't? Do all older immortals sound like fortune cookies?"

"You have met Marcus, haven't you?" Matthew said dryly.

"You still sound like a fortune cookie," Duncan told him after he quit laughing. "Which is better than last night. You didn't always sound like yourself."

Matthew nodded. "I realized later. Thank you for the help."

"I'm glad I was here to help." Duncan added, "But I don't think we're one of the things that have changed."

"No, I don't either," Matthew agreed. "And while I would do the same for you, Duncan, we'd both rather I didn't need to."

Duncan nodded emphatically. "From your mouth to God's ear." He looked at the mountains around them, the birch and aspen leaves rippling in the breeze, even the storm clouds building up to the west. "And that's probably not far, up here."

Matthew just chuckled. "It probably isn't. Come on. Those rocks won't move themselves."

"Well, actually, there's a stream, there's gravity--" Duncan ducked away from the half-hearted swipe at his shoulder and they went back to work.

**Author's Note:**

> _Comments, Commentary, and Miscellanea:_  
> 
> 
> Written for Killa from a tropes meme, and for the HL_Chronicles 20 year challenge.
> 
> Yes, Yena, I finally wrote you some kind of Sacketts crossover! Not much of one, but, er.
> 
> For anyone else who's going, "No, wait, what?" Cosmo Lengro is better known in the Sackett books as the Tinker. He was a tall, slim, long-jawed man with yellow eyes and a gold ring in his ear, who 'looked thirty and might've been ninety' and among other knacks, knows how to make Damascus steel knives. He only sells those to friends, and not often. Damn right I went, 'Oh, look, an immortal!' (That description is mostly from _Treasure Mountain_.)
> 
> Beta courtesy of Devo, Dragon, Raine, and Samjohnsson. They improved it immeasurably, and thank you!! Mistakes, of course, are my fault.


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